White on White
by ILuvBoysInDresses
Summary: France awakens in a state of confusion - alone, out of sorts, and far from home. Luckily, his charm has the skill of finding him companions wherever he goes.


Over his many years as a country, France had grown quite accustomed to awakening in unfamiliar settings. However, he had never found himself in such a strange unfamiliar setting as the one in which he had awoken that morning.

It appeared to be the storage room of a pastry shop. This in itself was actually quite usual for France, as he had a tendency to rendezvous with many pretty pastry chefs if their treats were enticing enough. What confused him about this particular room, however, was the animation style.

Each detail of his surroundings had a certain roundness and a brightness of colour that France had never seen before. Even less understandable, when he peered through the porthole in the storage room door, he discovered the whole town was full of cartoon-like ponies chatting excitedly amongst themselves.

"Alright," he began slowly, his accent strong in his fatigued state, "how the hell did I get here?"

"Ah," a powdery voice sounded from seemingly nowhere, "we are indeed quite far from Prance."

France's eyes darted around the room for the voice's owner but could not find anybody — or, rather, anypony — to which to link the high voice. In hopes of discovering who else was in the room, he finally replied, "Well, I've always pronounced it _France_."

"So, they went and changed the pronunciation on me again, I see," the voice reacted, and this time France noticed a fake yet lilting French accent in its words, but he still could not pinpoint its origin.

"Either way, it's still nice to meet a fellow countryman," France tried again. "I am Francis Bonnefoy. Who might you be, mademoiselle?"

"My name is Madam le Flour." It was then that France found the speaker, for, with a flourish of one burlap corner, a flour sac propped against the shelves bowed and said, "Enchanté."

France was stunned, but as he was ever-charming, he replied as smoothly as possible, "And to you, as well. Would you mind telling me where I am?"

"Not at all, monsieur," Madame le Flour announced, straightening and gesturing widely to the room. "This is the storage room of Ponyville's favourite pastry shop, Sugar Cube Corner."

"That's wonderful," France smiled, partly out of politeness to his strange hostess and partly out of pride for having been right about the room. "However, I'm rather new to this town; are there many other... animate objects here?"

The French flour sac drooped in sadness. "There are a few others living throughout Ponyville, but we rarely visit each other."

France felt a pang in his heart at the little sac's lament. He crossed the room and knelt beside her to offer some moral support. But as he began to rub a hand reassuringly down her back, he realised just how rough her burlap was and reveled in the sweet burn it left on his palm. The rest of his skin ached with jealousy at the sensation.

"It must be very lonely," France mused, working his fingers deliciously along her textured spine, "but I find that massages can be of great help. If I may…"

Without vocal agreement, Madame le Flour gracefully lowered herself and flattened against the hardwood floor. France increased his ministrations, using both hands and kneading into the burlap. Under his expertly placed touches, the lady of the house began to moan out breathy compliments.

"There," France purred, pulling back his stinging hands and rubbing them together hungrily as his companion let out a small noise of disapproval at the loss of contact, "feel better?"

"Oh, oui, monsieur, merci," she huffed into the floorboards. After a moment of lying still, she propped herself up on one corner and glanced over her shoulder with a sensual whine, "Though, I'm afraid that helped only my back."

France felt a flood of impending pleasure run though him and solidify in his groin. His tingling fingers fiddled with his ocean blue tie, tugging at it and loosening his collar. "Can I be of any assistance?" he asked, attempting to sound suave in spite of the way the words caught in his throat.

"I don't know…" Madame le Flour answered tauntingly and then pushed herself over so that she lied, sprawled and exposed, in front of the Frenchman's starving eyes. "Can you?"

In lieu of a yes, France whipped his tie from his neck and tore off his shirt, not wasting a moment to spare any of the buttons. Having previously been going commando, he slipped out of his pants and threw them across the room, leaving him fully nude and fully erect.

"My, my, you seem quite proficient in clothing removal, monsieur," his lady commented as her gaze raked down his muscular form.

"That's not all I'm proficient in, Madame," France growled to his mistress, grabbing her by her flour sac hips and grinding his arousal firmly against her fabric.

"Oh, monsieur!" Madame le Flour gasped out.

"Really, ma cheri?" France cocked his head, golden curls tumbling over cyan eyes as he chuckled. "I've only just started." It was then that he began to mix her batter.

Over and over again, his hips plowed forward, rutting his manhood against her. She responded in urgent commands, ecstatic screams, and strangled cries. Everything was a sweaty blur of _more_, _harder_, _yes_. The heat and pressure mounted until, in a terrific crescendo, they both exploded with the echo of tearing fabric.

When the powder settled, France was filled with an immense feeling of emptiness accompanied by a blazing rash upon his nether regions. He sat in silence until the daylight wore itself away and the whole town had grown hushed, then he stood, not bothering to dress himself, and exited the room in search of something to soothe his raw member. He moved quietly between the rooms on the lower floor before he found a bathroom. As he opened the medicine cabinet, he sighed in relief at the welcome sight of a blue-tinted bottle of aloe gel.

His fingers had just grazed the bottle when it shouted, "Hey now, bucko! You wanna ask first before you go grabbin' a lady?"

Shocked by the sharp country accent, he swiftly apologised, "Pardonnez-moi! I was only searching for a remedy. I assure you I meant no harm, _madamoiselle...?_"

France could hear her intake a composing breath before sighing and calmly replying, "Vera, m'name's Vera. And I guess it's alright. You just startled me is all. And I think I may have startled you right back. Sorry there, Mister." Her voice then perked up. "Hey, let me make it up to you. You said you needed some kind of a remedy, right? Can I help you with that?"

Enraptured by her voice and energy, France languidly slid one hand up Vera's curvacious figure and traced his other hand around the accomodating circumference of her cap. "Oh, I do believe you can, ma belle bouteille, if you would be so kind."

"Oh my! But, I'm just a simple country girl, Mister. I wouldn't know..." She trailed off as his fingers continued to stroke her neck. "Well, I- I'm sure I can give it a shot, if you just tell me what you need."

"Merci, ma cherie. I'm sure you'll be just what I need." France lifted the shy bottle from her shelf and turned off the lights.

* * *

**A/N(original): First, I just thought, "Well, I've completed my fuckery." And then, I realised, "Oh lord, I killed Madame le Flour." But, it's too late to turn back now, so never mind.**

**A/N(upon re-reading): Somebody shoot me. Somebody shoot me. Somebody shoot me. Somebody shoot me. Somebody!**

**A/N(final): I'm back~!**


End file.
